


Between Sacred and Profane

by ninemoons42



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bondage, Consensual Kink, Corsetry, Cunnilingus, Dancing, Dom/sub Play, F/M, Genderswap, Kinbaku (Japanese Rope Bondage), Strip Tease, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:09:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42





	1. dance for your heart

She prickles, today; it doesn't make sense, but she's completely open to the world around her right now, even when the world in its entirety is limited to a table on a sidewalk. Michael's birthday is in a week, but he's got to be away on a shoot, so they're going to celebrate a little early.

She shifts carefully in her seat, and winces and hides it behind her book. She hasn't understood a damn word in thirty pages. She's pushing herself, and she's letting her body dictate to her mind.

She takes a quick breath, and immediately she feels every detail of what she's wearing right now: the weave of her tweed suit; the silk shirt; the ballet flats. Beneath that - boning and steel, embroidery and ribbons tying her down. Thank goodness for the weak sunshine and the nippy breeze; she has an excuse to fidget, to be extremely self-aware, and she doesn't care who mistakes her movements for a half-hearted bid for warmth.

She watches her own hand shake as she takes a sip from her tea.

She smiles, and carefully adjusts the scarf she's tied on in place of a tie, and then there's a familiar roar coming her way and she stands up so quickly that the table rattles.

Michael swerves nearly all the way up to her table, and he pushes up the visor on his helmet and even then she glows at his appreciative, warm grin, though it's mostly hidden. "I feel underdressed, now, looking at you. You're...you're perfection is what you are."

She marvels at herself as she walks up to him, steady, slinking, and she accepts the jacket that he throws over her shoulders. "Yours or mine, have you decided?"

"Mine?"

"Gladly."

Jamie ties her scarf around her head and tucks herself into Michael's back, and she's not sure she doesn't imagine him drawing a startled breath - because this close, there's no way he can't already guess what she's wearing.

If he thinks that's the surprise, though - she hides her smile behind her hand, though he can't exactly look over his shoulder and see what she's doing.

At his hotel, she dodges him easily when he tries to get close, holds him at arm's length, one hand planted easily in the center of his chest. "You don't get to touch me till we're behind closed doors." She lowers her voice. "Because I don't trust myself not to do anything more than this, now I've got my hands on you."

"Like there's a reason for you to hold back?" Michael raises his eyebrows as they step into the elevator cabin.

Jamie blinks, and laughs. "You must be rubbish at waiting for your Christmas presents."

"Still a headache to my ma after all these years."

Still, she lets Michael steal a chaste kiss as he opens the door to his suite - and then once they're inside she dodges around him once more and starts putting things in place. iPod from her pocket, plugging it into the dock on the bedside table - speakers thumping out a powerful beat.

"That sounds good," Michael says.

"It does. Sit on the bed please. Hands to yourself till I say otherwise."

"I didn't know we were supposed to be playing."

Jamie smiles. "We're not. Think of it as a request. Believe me, you'll like it."

"I do get to touch you at some point, right?" He's almost pleading.

She nods.

And then bang on cue the music changes, switches to something intoxicating, and the bass-beat rattles through her blood. Senses, again, going into overdrive. She can smell the leather jacket where it touched Michael's skin, the clean sharp musk of him; she can smell herself, perfume and her sweat mixing together and running in slow rivulets down her arms and legs.

She lets the music take her where it goes; her body tells her she's raising her right leg slowly, up and into most of a vertical split, and she laughingly reaches upward to take that shoe off, throwing it to the side. Back on her feet, she raises the other shod foot in Michael's direction, and she winks at him, and he obediently takes that shoe and sends it to join its sister.

Carpet beneath her feet, warm pile and yarn worn to softness, as she pulls off her scarf and then the ribbons in her braided hair, and down it all comes around her shoulders, into her face, and she blows a few recalcitrant strands away, then slants a look at the man on the bed.

Michael looks like he's been sucker-punched: breath coming in sharp pants. Sweat darkening the plain henley; hands clenched into fists. His mouth hangs open, and his eyes are nearly all pupil now, gray a thin rim around black.

And she hasn't even started taking her clothes off yet - which, good idea, since she's so hyperaware of him and of herself that the tweed is starting to rub against her roughly, and she hisses as she undoes the buttons on the jacket and lets it slide off her shoulders.

"Jamie," Michael says, just as she turns her back, and she looks over her shoulder - and his eyes are on her shirt and on what's beneath it. The silk is nearly transparent. She only has to look down to see the crimson material beneath.

She wonders if he's on to her yet, and she smiles wickedly as she shimmies back around to face him, watches him as he watches her undo the buttons on her shirt and then take it off as well.

So here she is in her red corset, silver and black threads laid down as delicately as lace over steel and bone.

She walks over to Michael, pretty much crowding into him, and she nods, once. His hands on her hips are so large, so warm, that she gasps sharply over the music and it's a fight not to simply melt into him, because this actually is for him and he hasn't figured out the real surprise yet.

"Do you - " Michael's voice cracks. Jamie laughs, low and darkly amused. "Do you need help getting out of that?"

"Not yet, but you can do this," and she takes his hand, guides it to the hook-and-eye and zipper at the side of her trousers. His fingers tremble against her skin, and it takes him one or two tries to get the zipper moving smoothly.

She knows exactly when he knows - because the world is moving too fast for her, she's on her back on the duvet and Michael is laughing and sliding her trousers off, and there she is, in a corset and nothing else.

"And people ask me why I say I'm lucky," Michael says in a raspy voice, "I'm just a normal bloke, and then there's you. God, Jamie, what the hell kind of mind do you have, thinking up birthday presents like this."

"Breithlá shona duit, Michael," she purrs, "even if it is a whole week early." And she yanks him down, and his laughter feels good against her skin.


	2. Between Sacred and Profane

She playfully calls it “the poker game”. A strangely apt way of describing this...thing that they have, the one where they hole up in some outrageously expensive and terribly discreet hotel room in some strange city in the middle of the night, and spend hours talking and teasing and generally putting each other through kink hell.

 _Hell_ , of course, was a relative thing, and perhaps merely a descriptive term, as far as Michael was concerned. Especially when applied to Jamie: a hell of a woman, all things considered.

Sometimes he thought the two of them might be filling in some kind of elaborate bingo card, what with all their _activities_.

He remembers Jamie diving into the covers, giggling, and telling him to “just write, you wanker, I mean it, I’m not talking to you unless you do it” - and the letter he’d handed her had been three pages long, listing his fantasies about her, listing every single detail of every single thing he wanted to do to her in the next hour. He remembers her eyes growing wider and wider as she read his words - and he remembers the look of shocked pleasure in her eyes as he’d proceeded to demonstrate.

He remembers sitting still in front of a mirror, heart pounding nearly fit to burst, eyes locked on Jamie - on her eyes, on her hands, on every little flutter of movement, on the straightedge razor in her hand; the two of them suspended together, locked on the edge of the blade that she had been shaving him with.

He remembers a night when they’d traded off foot rubs; he remembers Jamie moaning loudly and shamelessly as he worked rose-scented oil into her skin, doubly appreciative after a day spent on beautiful stiletto heels. He remembers shaking under her hands when it was his turn, fighting not to flinch away as she rubbed over every ticklish inch.

This night, however, is different. They’re both back in town for that indefinable extra little wedge of holiday time just before everything starts up again. He’s back from seeing his parents; she’s back from a week with her mum in Majorca. After this they will stay in the same city, working on different projects; she’s going to be in a gender-flipped production of _Three Days of Rain_ , and he’s meeting Liam for some good old-fashioned film noir shenanigans.

Jamie’s booked this room for them, the key waiting for him down at reception, and an enigmatic note: “I hope you’re ready for this.”

Now he’s on his knees in the center of the room, stripped to his bare skin, and Jamie is sitting on the foot of the bed. She’s...dressed, just barely, down to her bra and panties, sharp contrast of black lace against her pale skin. It’s a combination he can’t get enough of, far outdoing the time she’d given him a lapdance, unbuttoning her gorgeous suit to reveal a scarlet corset and nothing else, not even a thong.

By her bare feet is a coil of rope, and it wafts a pleasant smell of summer fields and overgrown grass into the charged space between them.

“My turn tonight, yes,” she says, and it’s not even a question but he knows how to play by the rules, and he doesn’t speak. He bows his head, silent, waiting. Accepting.

The first order sends jolts of need through him anyway. “Hands,” Jamie murmurs, and she takes one of his hands, uses it to walk around him - he doesn’t miss the way she’s gripping the free end of the rope, white-knuckled - and she’s whispering to him as she secures each of his wrists to his elbows. “Did I ever tell you I had to learn something like this when I was starting out? Some kind of shit exploitation film. Can’t even remember the title. Yes, I had to do those things too, don’t give me that look, you can hardly judge me. The only good thing they did was bring in a master of the art of kinbaku. Do you know what that is? It comes from a series of Japanese interrogation techniques - but this, this isn’t torture, is it, do you think?”

The knots are tight and secure and Michael is suddenly that much more aware of Jamie, of the heat radiating from her skin, so close and yet so far - and he is also aware of himself, of his skin and how he’s confined.

“That’s the first set,” she says, her accent rough around the words, and Michael draws in a sharp breath and, through sheer pure instinct, fights the knots she’s tied him into. The rope creaks - but doesn’t give. Here he is with his hands behind his back, each wrist tied to its opposite elbow, and it’s strangely comfortable, and he’d protest but - no. The need to fight her, to struggle to get away, becomes a distant voice in the back of his mind becomes a roaring rush of silence.

He bows his head again, unbidden.

Jamie is murmuring, “You like that, don’t you? Good, Michael, you’re doing so well.”

He’s more than ready for the second rope, or perhaps it is just an extension of the first length because he can feel the kiss of rough strands up his spine. He watches Jamie as she walks back around him, facing him again, and her hands chase some kind of beautiful rhythm through the air as she ties a second series of knots and - _oh_. Bright burn of rope at his throat - a snug collar, and he can feel its presence with every sudden gasp for breath.

“Beautiful.” Jamie leans in, and she’s just an inch away and he tries to lean forward, to meet her halfway - the rope suddenly tightens and he jerks back with a soft cry, and that smile on her face darkens. “Yes, that’s as far as you’re going to get right now - unless you’re good for me, and you’d like to be good for me, wouldn’t you? Tell me. Yes or no only.”

“Yes,” Michael says.

“Yes, you will,” Jamie echoes, all beautiful promises, and she closes the distance between them at last. A brief burning brush of that wicked mouth against his lips.

He wants her so very desperately, even though by now they’ve had each other over and over again. He thinks he might spontaneously combust; he thinks he’ll go mad if he can’t touch, can’t reach out to her - but that is precisely his predicament right now, and he can’t move except as she directs him. If she will even direct him.

The idea literally takes Michael’s breath away.

She must see it in his eyes because - “You understand, then,” and it’s the words, it’s Jamie’s approval, it’s that voice of hers that goes straight to his cock, arousal a powerful hammer-strike down his nerves, and with the way he can feel everything in his skin right now it just redoubles the force of his need, until he’s left shaking and helpless.

Fingers hooking into his collar, a quick tug. He doesn’t have a choice, he’s happy that he doesn’t have a choice, and forward he goes, on his knees, toward Jamie, who is back on the bed and leaning on her hands. Her waist is just at the level of his chin. This close, _oh god_ he’s this close now and he can smell Jamie - the clean scent of her skin, the lingering amber notes of the cologne she liked to use - and that indefinable musk of her, hot and powerful and it’s another blow to his already reeling senses.

She smiles again, and taps a point on her stomach just below her navel, just above the waistband of her panties. “Get me out of this.”

 _Yes,_ Michael thinks, as if there are other possible answers, as if there’s anything else he’d rather be doing.

He deliberately bares his teeth - Jamie laughs, low and soft, and it only takes him three tries to catch the satiny material in his lips and he’s pulling. Jamie’s hand is on the back of his head, guiding him.

She smells so intoxicatingly good; she’s fire in his veins, she’s poison, the best kind, the one he wants - and she doesn’t even have to give him an order, the barest pressure of her fingers on his neck and he’s moving in, caught in her webs, caught in the taste of her, and he can’t help but moan and he can feel her shaking in response.

“Michael, Michael, fuck, please,” and the rest of it falls into breathy moans and those are her hands on his shoulders, pushing him in, and he goes, willingly. Bollocks to the ropes and to choking, he’ll be more than happy to go like this.

Jamie is a shivering wreck all around him as she comes for the second time, and then for the third - and he doesn’t know how she still has the strength to actually push him away, and he topples over with a strangled yelp; he sees stars for an instant.

When he blinks up Jamie is standing over him, is putting a foot on his chest and she looks fucked-out and glorious. Breathy, broken whispering moan: “Oh no, you’re not getting out of this one easily, not until I’ve had you, every inch of you - what do you think I put you in those ropes for” - and she’s trailing her foot down, down, over his stomach and lower.

He sees stars again, a teasing touch against his cock, and he grits his teeth and he knows he’s straining toward her, fighting his bonds in earnest now.

“Ah ah,” she laughs, “my terms, sweetheart,” and dear God but Michael’s about ready to break as Jamie sinks gracefully to her knees; she takes her time, she knows exactly what she’s doing to him as she holds him in place and then, finally, she’s taking him in, stretch and slide of her moving down and squeezing his cock, she’s right where he wants her, and if his hands weren’t tied down he’d be pinning her wrists down while he fucks up into her.

Jamie knows that, too, and Michael hisses and groans and pleads as she grinds against him, too slowly, too much. Dimly he remembers her talking about interrogation - and now he knows she has all his secrets - and that’s the thought that drives him over the edge at last, to Jamie whispering his name and laughing in quiet triumph.

///

When Michael comes to, he’s flat on his back.

Blink, blink, and carefully, gingerly, he shrugs one shoulder, and then the other. The pain that comes is no more than a faint twinge, easily forgotten, though he finds he wants to hold on to it, to the idea of straining against knots and rope.

He stills, and breathes. He can definitely remember the smell of the ropes, the scents of Jamie’s sweat and skin and sex.

 _Release_ , in more ways than one. It makes him smile.

As does the sight of Jamie sitting next to him, tongue caught in her teeth as she wrestles with the lid of the small jar in her hands. Pop, and it’s open, and she hums softly as she dips in two fingers. Pale yellow cream, and the not unpleasant scent of sandalwood. She takes his hand and begins to work the cream into his wrist, every stroke deliberate and gentle.

“Jamie,” he says, and she hums, and looks up to smile at him.

“Let me look after you,” she says, simply.

 _Cards on the table time, and she’s won,_ he thinks, and Michael closes his eyes and once again he sinks into the stillness of her, into the paradox of Jamie.  



End file.
